


Snow Peace of Mind

by friendlytroll



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Midnight City, Midnight Crew - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:57:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlytroll/pseuds/friendlytroll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boxcar likes to get out of the hideout sometimes, same as everyone else. He likes to get a drink, alone, and try to steal a little peace of mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Peace of Mind

"Nothing to say?"

Boxcar glanced down, picking up his drink. Snowman was long, and sleek, and black as midnight, even with those arcing lines of bright, hateful green on her now. She was smiling a little, or smirking. Baiting him.

It would have worked for Spades. In a heart beat, without trying. It'd even get Droog, although he'd pretend it didn't, and do a very good job of it, and just leave the first fool to step on his spats a bloody mess in an alleyway on the way home to deal with it. It might- might- even have worked on Deuce, but it'd take effort. Shed have to stoop to actually insulting Slick, or the midnight crew to get anything but cheered bafflement from him. It was hard to make him mad, not impossible, and if you knew how loyal he was, you knew he'd cheerfully kneecap a gent who said a bad word for his friends.

Hearts liked this bar. It was quiet, no one bothered him much, and they got real gin in from out in the sticks, where someone'd figured out how to distill it right. Sometimes a man just wanted to take a little while off without no goddamned felt or yammering or bitching, and have a damn drink. Quit being a nanny for five minutes. Not have to deal with his job.

If Droog were here, he'd probably have something smarmy to say about Hearts work following him. Then again, if he was there, and said something goddamned smart, he'd probably have blacked his eye out, so he probably woulda just kept his goddamned mouth shut. 'Less he was feeling punchy, or someone'd let him have a cosmo again. He wasn't sure what the fuck his deal was with that godforsaken drink, but it never ended well.

So he came here, to get a little peace of mind. Sometimes Deuce tagged along, but on the whole it was his time. They all had something like that, and it was a kind of sacrament between them. Do as you like, but don;t fuck with this one thing here. Maybe the one thing was a person, or a time of day, or just a place. This bar was his. No one fucked with it.

Until, anyhow, when the door had swung open, and the distinct little clicks of black inches strolled up to him, measured and slow as the tick of a clock.

There were only so many problems Boxcars *had* he couldn't solve with his fists. And the number one fucking item of that list had just sauntered into view, on his fuckin day off, and if he ever found out who'd let the bitch know he came here, Slick;d have a brand new set of fucking ivory pianna keys.

"…not t' you." he grunted, staring determinedly ahead at the rows of bottles on the shelves, refusing to show any weakness… and using the reflective curves to check on the sly for any green bastards. He wouldn't put it past them to roll him- and really, he'd never know, would he. If it was clover, he'd be too lucky to get seen, wouldn't he. Let alone those two past and future fuckers. Even if it was just her, then all it'd take is a coin flip, and shed never even have to get her hands dirty.

"For the record, I'm alone." she was laughing at him. She seemed to laugh a little bit at everything, with that little crinkled look.

He rolled his eyes a little, and set his glass down again. You were s'posed to use 'the right class' for a martini, but those little eyedroppers served in weak glass stems didn't do shit for him. He ordered- and goddamned well got- a full pint of martini, and stir that shit god fucking dammit or he'd come back there and make it himself. And if he wanted dry, he'd get dry. A decade and a half without vermouth was too much for any goddamned fucking man to have to bear, and if all he wanted was to get drunk he'd just order a fucking keg. He could do *that* at fucking home.

"…look. I get it, right? You're tryin' to make me fucking mad. And I don't like you bein' here, and if you flip some bullshit coin and call n some bullshit green torso, they're exitin' here right out the goddamned window. But you know what?" he looked down at her, and met her dead in the eye, his own narrowed.

"I ain't got no goddamned means to make you leave, so be my gawdammned guest." She was hard to read, and he'd never picked up the knack and didn't care much what she thought anyhow. He just came here to drink, and take a break. Either she'd attack him, or call one of her goons, or he'd get rumbled in the ally, or he wouldn't.

When he glanced to the side again after a moment, she was pulled up onto a barstool, examining the drinks list critically. Like he'd said, he didn't have any real ability to stop her. Alright, so she wouldn't die if he pushed her off the stool, but that would just call down a whole fuckin' shit storm on himself, and land him in the hospital- if he was lucky.

He wound up drinking quietly as he had intended, doing his best to ignore the felts second in command. She ordered, and drank- blessedly- quietly, and after an hour stood to go.

He closed his eyes in faint relief, before he could think of what a fucking mistake that'd be, and felt a faint touch, on his arm. The ex queen had slim, delicate hands- the kind you forgot real easy were capable of tearing you limb from limb, ring or no ring. He flinched a little, eyes narrowing- watching her hand slowly move along his arm, up to the elbow.

He caught her wrist, in forefinger and thumb, with the care he had to use for glasses, and playing cards, and honestly most shit that wasn't make of metal or wood. If yu were a Brute Class, and cared to keep any nice shit, you learned. You learned or you were just a mindless fuckin' berserker, and died like an animal.

She looked at his hand, then- she had leaned one elbow against the bar, sleek as a stream of red wine- and seemed to smile, or at least her eyes turned up, because it was the only way to tell.

"You touch things the way he used to." the words were like floating smoke in the air, making Boxcar blink a little- the growled demand she not be touching any theoretical merchandise caught up, swallowed by the silence spreading out in the air, while comprehension dawned.

For a brief moment, while she pulled away, her slim, delicate, vicious little fingers curled and caught on his, daintily little claws dragged against the rough underside of his palm as she stepped away, fading against the dim open air until there was nothing left but the involuntary *tingle* in his hand, and the black lip-print shed left against her glass.

Hearts slammed his pay down on the counter, downed his last drink in one go, and stormed out into the street, seething. What kind of a fella did she take him for, anyhow? It'd take a lot more then some dame to make him lose his head, that was for goddamned sure.

He only needed to tell himself that once, because it was true, and the clear air made him feel a little less dizzy. Back to normal life, right? Back to where dire enemies didn't corner you in little, quiet bars, and drink dry martinis from those stupid fragile little glasses. And if two, long, *thin* scratches weren't still visible on his palm, he never woulda believed it.

There was already an argument going on- possibly the old standby, Slick V Slick, owing to the leaders ill temper no longer requiring an actual participant to interact with- and that was calming. That was shit to do.

That was not wondering hat'd happen when he went back, and anything was a little better then that.


End file.
